"Nay, thou'rt not, and thou'lt be worse if I let thee live, and if thou survives that poor lass will lead a living death." "Joe--mercy!" cried Richard, as the pressure on his breast increased. "Ask it fro' up yonder," said the foreman solemnly. "I'll gi'e you two minutes to pray while the fuse burns. It'll last two minutes; see, lad." "Joe, Joe," panted his victim, feebly struggling as against some horrible nightmare, while with starting eye-balls he glared up at the weird, distorted face of his foreman, upon which the light shone strangely as he opened the lantern door, held it to the fuse for a moment, closed it, and hurled it to the other side of the foundry, while the slow match began to burn gradually towards the powder. "He's mad, he's mad!" moaned Richard, gazing hard with a feeling of horrible fascination at the burning fuse, whose faint sparkling light made the face of Banks look to him like that of some demon. "Joe, for my father's sake!" "Not for his. Yo' canno' be your father's bairn." "Joe, for Daisy's sake," panted Richard, again. "Mercy, mercy! it has nearly burned out." "Pray, fool, pray," hissed Banks. "It may save you from the curse I give you for blasting my home. I wean't run. Let it go, for thou'rt sent here to-night to die. It's God's vengeance on you for what you've done. See the powther catches." "It's devil's work, not God's!" shrieked Richard, as, grasping the foot that pressed him down, he made a final effort for life, just as the train caught fire, flashed up, and began to run in a serpentine course towards the barrels. Another moment and it would have been too late. As it was, Joe Banks took a couple of strides, and swept the powder aside in the middle of the train, so that when the lurid serpent that seemed running its wavy course along the floor, lighting up the works with a strange glow, reached its maker's foot, it fluttered, sparkled here and there to right and left, and then all was darkness. "You're raight," said Banks, solemnly, from out of the darkness, while, half blinded by the glare, Richard feebly struggled to his knees, and crouched there, bathed in a chilly sweat. "You're raight; it is devil's work, and I canno' do it. Richard Glaire, I believe I'm mad; and when I found you here, wi' her as lies theer moaning, I said we'd all die together." "This is horrible, horrible!" moaned Richard. "Mebbe it is," said Banks, sadly; "but for you, lad, the bitterness o' death is past. It's devil's work, indeed, and it shall not be mine. Get up, and tak' yon poor lass away, lest the fit comes ower me again, and I forget as I'm a man." Richard groaned, for he was weak and helpless as a babe. "I give you your life before," continued Banks, moving to where a dim light showed where the lantern lay, and returning with it open, so that its glow shone upon Richard Glaire's white face. "I give it to you again, man. Go, and God forgive you what you've done to me."